


Music of the Soul

by orphan_account



Category: Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Blues, Fluff, Gen, Memories, Music, child!Ray, harmonica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-15
Updated: 2010-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bringing the harmonica to his lips once more, he took a deep breath and cradled the instrument tenderly, his breath bringing it to life as he began to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Forgot to post this. xD Feels like a lifetime ago since I wrote it.

Evening came all too soon to New York, the full moon casting its pale glow over the city streets and buildings. As it washed over the Firehouse, Janine was locking up for the evening, preparing to head for home. She hardly noticed the moon's maternal gaze as she tottered across the street.

Peter, too, had gone home – a quick change of clothes later, and he would be back out on the streets, wining and dining Miss Dana Barrett, probably making cheesy remarks about the moon's affect on her appearance.

Winston leaned back in his chair, in the garage-cum-reception of the Firehouse, totally at ease with his feet on the table. Slimer waited excitedly as Winston shuffled a pack of cards. It was his night to mind the phones – though recently things had been quieter than usual, giving him plenty of time for keeping Slimer busy and away from the fridge.

In the downstairs laboratory, various pieces of machinery and gadgets had been newly sorted into boxes, now stashed on shelves around the laboratory. Ray pushed one more box into a cubby hole on one of his shelves, then stood back to admire his handy-work, rolling his sleeves back down over his arms, and wincing at the vague pain in his thumbs and fingers where he had managed to miss the nails he had been hammering.

Looking down at his uniform, he noticed greyed patches around his knees from kneeling on the floor, to pick things up and stash them in boxes. Other areas also sported dust, and in fact, he wouldn't have been surprised if someone pointed out the smears of dirt on his cheeks, forehead and nose. A lot of gadgets, tools and parts had ended up in obscure corners under tables and unreachable behind bookshelves.

Reaching into his pocket, Ray retrieved the prize he had found while tidying: his old harmonica. He had almost forgotten he still had it, as it had been lost for that long. He didn't know when exactly it had gone missing, any longer. It had somehow been knocked down the back of his bookcase.

However, he still remembered how he had got it. Ray had been in grade school at the time – the owner of the comic book shop, Mr. Abrams, had given it to him one day, after Ray had gone into the shop, crying, on his way home from school. His knees were grazed and a bruise was beginning to blush across his cheek. The old man had given him a soda, and listened to him as he cleaned and dressed the boy's wounds. It seemed Favish had given the kid a beating again. Elaine had pulled the larger boy away in time to allow Ray to run – he didn't know if she was alright. Mr. Abrams grimaced – Favish may be a brute, but he hoped he would consider it below his dignity to smack a girl.

He had left his music on the record player in the background as he went to find the latest comics, sure to cheer little Ray up – Booker T. and the MG's, who had written a piece about green onions, was rumbling away. Ray had to admit, as he read the dust jacket, that he was puzzled as to why anybody would write a song about the allium family.

Beside the record player, something... shiney... caught Ray's attention. Picking it up, he surveyed the small bar of silvery metal. There were a series of holes in one side, and two larger, elongated holes in the other side. Blowing through that side didn't do anything, so he tried again on the side with the smaller holes. It produced a rather pleasing chord, and Ray was entranced as the chord.... thrummed... through his fingers. It felt good. Looking around, he brought it to his lips again and blew another chord. This time, the chord was lower, and the thrumm more pronounced.

Mr. Abrams returned with the comics, smiling down at Ray as he fiddled with the small bar. It was, as it turned out, called a harmonica. He had been waiting for someone to pass it on to – “you can keep it if you like,” Mr. Abrams had told him, gently ruffling his hair.

Ray asked then how it worked. Mr. Abrams didn't shrink from taking apart the delicate little instrument to show the boy the inner chambers, the combs, the casing, how it all fit together, and how it produced the sounds. From then on, every Wednesday after school was their time together, as Mr. Abrams taught Ray how to play, and as his skills improved, jammed alongside him.

Having found the old blues harp again, Ray inspected the instrument with a smile. The silvery metal was slightly tarnished with age – that would clean up fine, he knew. Giving it a quick, firm tap against his thigh cleared the dust out from inside it.

As he leaned back against his work bench, Ray softly blew into the harmonica. It produced a merry chord, the vibration of the combs thrumming through the casing, thrilling Ray. Drawing in air through the harmonica sent the vibration down into his chest. That felt good. He had nearly forgotten how it felt to be so connected to his music through such a small instrument.

Bringing the harmonica to his lips once more, he took a deep breath and cradled the instrument tenderly, his breath bringing it to life as he began to play.

***

Having finally emerged from the upstairs lab, Egon clomped down the stairs into the basement with his clipboard in hand. Every evening, the same routine: check the containment unit's “vital signs”, ensuring that all was still in working order, and that none of the ghosts contained therein were amiss.

From the lab next door to the containment unit area, he could hear the joyous, affectionate music piping through the harmonica as Ray played. Egon knew that Ray played – the little harp had accompanied Ray everywhere when they were in University, as ever present as the young man's toolkit for electronics projects. On the more difficult days, when his harmonica had been brought out, Ray's playing seeming to ease whatever he was feeling.

He had wondered what had ever happened to the harmonica – Ray had obviously found it again.

Egon leaned slightly on the door jamb, listening and watching through the open door as Ray brought his old and faithful friend to life once more, and a rare smile graced his lips, enjoying the music of Ray's soul.

 

**END**


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